BIGLY FICTION

Did not watch speechy-weechy last night. Read about it. One long grievance-filled rant, cheered by baboons. Went to bed early because of eye-doctors appointment today.
Need those eyes, of course, to read all about speechy-weechy.

There's only so much steaming coberder and hamvefe one can look at before deciding that we all need another bigly front page obituary. Actually, several.
There's a bigly-wigly list.


Pipe preambulary to any ablution was a Comoy squat bulldog like Clark Gable often smoked, filled with an aged red Virginia and Perique mixture, out on the front steps with a big cup of coffee. I decided to combine my two favourite early morning activities in the interests of efficiency, as my eye doctors appointment is right when the office opens.
And I like to be early.

The coffee was strong, the tobacco mild.
A scarf, and a throwrug.
Cold.

Often on Wednesdays I have lunch at a chachanteng, then do some grocery shopping, after which at around teatime I'll end up having a pastry and a hot cuppa while trying to converse with three gentlemen who are collectivly a century older than myself. Which, if they've listened to speechy-weechy, might be challenging. Bigly.

Having gotten up at the freezing crack of dawn, I do not need challenging.
What I need is Battenberg Cake. Sadly unavailable here.
Would go great with coffee.

It's a sudden mental insinking.
A thick slice of cake.
Mmm.



Obituaries, when you think about them, can be truly great literature.
Fiction, romance, and an imaginary world.
Staggering.


Huge. Huuuge. Huge. And bigly. It will be the best obituary ever.




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